


how wrong we were to think, that immortality meant never dying

by mindyfication



Series: I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Minor Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Nephilim, Novak Family, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 21:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindyfication/pseuds/mindyfication
Summary: She wonders, often, what the angels were truly like. She’s heard the stories of course, her mother Christine passed them down from her great-grandmother Claire.





	how wrong we were to think, that immortality meant never dying

**Author's Note:**

> Onto track four: Our Lady of Sorrows ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipdOe8Qn48U))

Cassandra Novak sits in a field of grass, an hour or two away from being dewy. The moon is falling, but the stars still twinkle and Cassandra has always felt at home beneath the heavens. It’s a little too poetic, but she’s only half-nephilim, can’t be held to their standards. She wonders, often, what the angels were truly like. She’s heard the stories of course, her mother Christine passed them down from her great-grandmother Claire. Most of them resolve around her grandfather Castiel, of how he loved humans, of how he danced around the battlefield, on nearly every side. It’s told that he loved Cleo the most, her grandmother, but Cassandra knows it is not true. 

She knows a thing about stories and how they’re woven. The Novak line was necessary, a blood line of strong vessels that refused to change their name. Castiel never let those he loved die- killed a reaper and a thousand others for his precious Winchesters. No, he did not love Cleo. Would not impregnate a loved one, knowing their death would come in five short months. 

It has something to do with the gates, Cassandra knows that. 

Sam and Dean’s last act had been to close them, the details never recorded nor spoken of. They would not let any undo their work, for humans would now live free of demons and monsters and biblical apocalypses and any others that would seek to ruin. Heaven and hell forever closed off to the world, but Cassandra knows it must be open to spirits. There’s some hidden door or filter, for ghosts- angry or benign- do not dwell here. 

There’s an old argument Cassandra can barely remember. Of when she was only six, creeping in the hallway when she was supposed to be sleeping. But she’d never heard Mom yell, was curious. 

Cassandra remembers the gist of it- or what she assumed it was- only two clear sentences remembered: _Your mother chose to sacrifice herself for humankind. I would have stabbed Castiel myself had I known their plan._

Cassandra’s always been good at puzzles, at connecting little tidbits of information. It leaves her with a startling picture of how she came to be- of what could happen if another came to her conclusions. (They won’t of course- monsters, angels, none of them are real, just leftovers from a less civilized era.)

It would have been a spell to close Earth off from the other realms. Someone who had existed on all three major planes would be needed- and even better, two soulmates. Two soulmates marked by the blood of a newborn nephilim. Making them impossible to take from heaven, impossible to force alive and reverse the spell. There would have been holy fire too, to purge the land of monsters. It doesn’t quite fit with the tales of Dean and Sam: saving people, hunting things. But Cassandra supposes her family would have been rather biased to them, and she can’t imagine them being forced into such a spell. 

What Cassandra hasn’t been able to figure out is why her mother was allowed to live. Claire knew what she was, the last inhuman on Earth and yet, she didn’t kill the babe. Worse almost, she allowed her to grow old and reproduce. 

Cassandra knows she shouldn’t exist. She’s always known more than she ought, blames the angel blood and hints of grace. She’s an unnecessary liability, stardust and more running through her veins. 

But she’s heard the stories all her life, and she doesn’t want to go to purgatory. She won’t last long in a land of blood thirsty monsters, has been raised soft. 

The solution comes to her suddenly- so blindingly simple and obvious. She would find the bunker and train until she knew how to kill anything. She’s starting late, is already twenty, but the angel in her makes her age slow, looks fourteen on a good day. She won’t be able to hunt any real monsters of course, but maybe if she gets the theory perfect, she’ll have a chance at surviving. 

It takes a month before she finds the bunker, the key ironically the easiest part to find, taped to the front of an old journal. The bunker itself she stumbles across when she’s driving to a new place she thinks it might be, pulling over to check her map. She isn’t where she thought she’d be- something’s fucking with her phone’s gps- but there’s a sketchy looking bunker in the middle of no where and she has a good feeling about it. 

A good feeling turns into a huge library, a new home, an established purpose.

Cassandra splits her days simply- reading in the morning, exercising and practicing at night. She falls into the habit of sleeping in clothes with her weapons on her. If the journals are to be believed, they’ll go with her in death. 

The journals themselves are a wild ride. There are three main sources Cassandra’s been using as a backbone to her studies. The Winchester Gospels is first, written by God himself and yet still blatantly biased. (Cassandra works up many headaches considering that.) Then there’s John Winchester’s journal, finished by his eldest son, and it’s fairly objective if dry in comparison. And finally, there’s Sam’s journals. 

Cassandra can admit those are her favorite. They’re clearly more to record his personal thoughts than for posterity, and she almost feels guilty sometimes reading them. He writes earnestly of what their legacies would be, of how they carved their initials into the table and Cassandra runs her fingers over them, a chill darting down her back. It’s still weird to think of them as _people_ , her mother had always made them sound like legends. (Claire hadn’t, but Cassandra doesn’t remember much of her great-grandmother’s words.)

She reads about them saving each other, over and over again, can’t imagine loving anyone enough to choose them before anything else. Of the horrific things they did for each other, _to_ each other. She watches their love turn romantic, can’t help but think it was there the whole time as Sam writes of their first kiss, his handwriting frenzied. 

The thirteenth series of books is Chuck’s shortest, and Cassandra still doesn’t understand how he got the books back on Earth. She supposes he _is_ God, but still… 

Chuck doesn’t write about the ritual they did, his final page long before they reached that age. He writes them driving off into the sunset with their hands clasped, onto another hunt. He doesn’t write about their sex life either, and Cassandra finds herself relieved at that. It was enough to read Sam’s flattery for his brother’s eyes and loopy words over Dean making him breakfast in bed, would rather not know exactly what he thought about his cock. 

Sam doesn’t even hint at the ritual once. Dean has a single paragraph on the last page, one that Cassandra reads over and over before ripping it out to burn: _We’re doing the spell today. ~~They’re not gonna-~~ Cosmic consequences took longer than Billie woulda guessed. This way Sam goes to our heaven, that’s all that matters. Dean out._

Six months into her new adventure, and Cassandra’s almost dangerous. Her mother thinks her crazy, begs her to do anything else with her life. But Christine has enough grace to live forever. She isn’t going anywhere. (Some mornings she thinks the void might be a mercy. She isn’t even hunting or fighting anyone, and yet she’s still tired from training.)

She feels most connected to the angels these days. Single-minded with purpose, no real emotions besides satisfaction when she completes a task. 

Seventy-eight years old, and Cassandra reaches her prime. Her body is around thirty and there’s nothing more to learn. She’s read the lore, researched more, on every monster that’s ever existed on Earth. Suicides don’t go to heaven, but neither do angels and the real question has always been purgatory or nothing. She couldn’t possibly be more prepared, and to age further is to make herself weak. 

Cassandra washes down a bottle of pills with whiskey, is ready.


End file.
